Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 224: The Déjà Vu

THE AIR in the private lounge didn’t stay quiet for long. The heavy doors groaned open, and the sounds of the gala flooded back in—a discordant symphony of string instruments that sounded like they were weeping and the low, predatory hum of voices.

Grayson had been swept away by a tide of lesser lords and opportunists, all eager to press their luck with the new owner of Vane’s seat.

From the doorway of the lounge, Mailah watched him. He stood in the center of a circle of demons, a glass of dark, shimmering liquid in his hand.

He wasn’t the man who had cooked her food before. He looked taller, his posture straighter, and there was a wild, erratic edge to his movements.

"He’s drinking the distilled essence of the ’tithe’ wine. Combined with what he took from Vane? He’s going to be absolutely smashed by midnight," Ravenson muttered, appearing at Mailah’s shoulder.

"Smashed?" Mailah asked, her eyes tracking the way Grayson threw back his head and laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound. "You mean he’s getting drunk?"

"Demon drunk," Ravenson clarified. "It’s less about losing your coordination and more about losing your inhibitions. For an incubus, that’s... well, it’s a lot."

The brothers nudged Mailah back into the main ballroom, acting as a silent, silver-eyed phalanx around her. The gala had entered a new phase. It wasn’t just a party anymore; it was a display.

In one corner, a demon with skin like cracked parchment was conjuring illusions of burning cities for the amusement of a group of ladies in velvet. In another, a massive, horned creature was engaged in a game of "Wager," where the stakes seemed to be years of life taken from the dazed human vessels standing nearby.

Feeding wasn’t the "main event" anymore, but it was everywhere.

It was subtle. A touch on a wrist here, a deep inhale against a neck there.

Mailah watched a woman in a shimmering red dress lean into a handsome human man; as she pulled away, the man’s eyes went dull, his knees buckling slightly while she wiped a drop of shimmering light from the corner of her mouth.

It was repulsive. Every time a demon looked her way, their eyes lingering on her throat or the curve of her shoulder, Mailah’s hand flew to the iron ring Carson had given her.

Twist twice to the left and point.

She wanted to do it. She wanted to stun the whole room, scream at them for being monsters, and run until her lungs burned.

But Grayson didn’t come back.

He was always a few yards away, trapped in a sea of silk and shadows. He was always speaking to someone who seemed to have a high position.

He didn’t even look at her. The annoyance started as a small spark in Mailah’s chest and grew into a roaring fire.

I’m the ’protected queen,’ am I? she thought bitterly. While he plays politician and gets high on soul-essence.

"You’re scowling, Duchess," Carson chirped, appearing beside her with a plate of something that looked like glowing blue grapes. "Careful, or your face will freeze like that. It’s a bad look for a royal consort."

"I want to go home, Carson," Mailah said, her voice tight. "Grayson is busy, the room smells like misery, and I’m pretty sure that lady over there just tried to taste me."

Carson popped a glowing grape into his mouth. "Yeah, that’s Lady Vesper. She’s a shadow-eater. Don’t worry, Mason gave her the ’I’ll-break-your-spine’ look five minutes ago. You’re safe."

"I don’t care if I’m safe. I’m exhausted. Take me home."

Carson’s playful expression flickered, replaced by a touch of genuine hesitation. "Ah. About that. You aren’t going back home tonight, Mailah. The Gala is a three-day affair, but the first night is the only one where guests are ’on display.’ The High King expects the Ashfords to stay here. It’s part of the ’re-entry’ protocol."

"What? Seriously?" Mailah asked, her heart sinking.

"Grayson already had your things moved. Or, well, Mason did. He’s the one with the organizational skills," Carson explained.

Mailah felt a wave of dizziness. It wasn’t just physical tiredness; it was a deep, soul-level fatigue.

The air in this place felt heavy, like she was breathing underwater. Every laugh, every flicker of demonic power felt like a tiny straw dipping into her energy.

"Why do I feel like I’m dying?" she whispered, leaning against a marble pillar.

Carson’s voice softened. He stepped closer, blocking her view of a particularly gruesome display nearby. "You’re not dying. You’re experiencing emotional drainage. You’re a human in a room full of predators. Even if they aren’t touching you, they’re ’feeding’ on the atmosphere. And you? You’re a walking feast of empathy and shock. It’s exhausting."

He reached out, surprisingly gentle, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m not sorry you saw what you saw, Mailah. If you’re going to be with him, you need to see. But I am sorry you’re tired. Come on. Let’s get you to your room before you faceplant into the caviar."

The transition from the ballroom to the guestroom was a blur of shadows and cold air. Carson led her through a shimmering veil of mist, and suddenly, the noise of the gala was gone.

The manor was a sprawling, gothic masterpiece of black stone and silver filigree. It felt ancient, smelling of old books, dried lavender, and the sharp tang of the sea. It was beautiful, but in a way that felt lonely.

Carson led her up a grand staircase that seemed to climb forever. "This is the west wing. It’s the most isolated part of the house. Grayson’s quarters are just down the hall, but this room is yours. It’s guarded. No one gets in without an Ashford’s key."

He opened a set of double doors to a room that was larger than Mailah’s entire apartment. A massive canopy bed with velvet hangings sat in the center. A fire was already crackling in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls.

"Sleep," Carson said, his usual wit returning with a small wink. "Try not to dream of us eating you. It ruins the complexion."

He closed the door, leaving her in a silence so profound it made her ears ring.

Mailah was too tired to even look for her suitcase. She felt like her bones were made of lead. She fumbled with the zipper of her midnight gown, but her fingers were shaking and the intricate silk seemed to cling to her skin.

"Stupid... expensive... beautiful dress," she muttered, finally managing to yank the zipper down.

She let the gown fall to the floor in a heap of fabric. Standing in just her lace underwear, she felt a brief chill before she scrambled toward the bed.

She didn’t have the energy to find a nightgown. She didn’t have the energy to brush her teeth. She kicked her strappy heels into the dark corner of the room and dove under the heavy, silk-lined blankets.

The bed was warm—strangely warm, as if it had been waiting for her. The moment her head hit the pillow, the world vanished.

Mailah woke up to the sensation of weight.

It wasn’t the heavy, suffocating weight of the gala’s atmosphere. This was physical.

A solid, radiating heat pressed against her back. An arm, thick with muscle and heavy with the scent of expensive wine, was draped firmly across her waist.

For a second, her brain scrambled to find its place in time. She felt the soft puff of breath against the back of her neck—a slow, rhythmic heat that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

She froze.

This had happened before. She had been sleeping in her twin sister’s bed, pretending to be someone’s wife. In the middle of the night, a man had stumbled into the room—drunk, beautiful, and smelling of alcohol.

He had climbed into bed beside her, murmuring a name that wasn’t hers, holding her with a desperation that had changed her life forever.

That was the night she met Grayson. The night she thought he was just a wealthy, troubled billionaire playboy.

But now, she knew the truth.

The arm around her waist tightened. The hand was large, the fingers splayed across her stomach, the skin hot enough to burn.

Mailah’s breath hitched. She could feel the warmth radiating off him. He wasn’t just asleep; he was radiating heat like a furnace.

"Grayson?" she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck, inhaling sharply. He smelled of the gala—of that shimmering "tithe" wine.

"You smell like... home," he rumbled. His voice was different. It was deeper, more guttural.

Mailah tried to shift, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Grayson, you’re drunk. You’re in the wrong room. Go to your quarters."

"I am in my quarters," he murmured against her skin. His lips brushed her shoulder, a touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. "The manor is also mine. You are mine."

"I am not," she snapped, though her body was betraying her, leaning back into his heat even as her mind screamed for her to push him away. "You’re a monster, remember? You told me to ’choose the crown’ or be a victim. Well, I’m choosing to be a person who gets to sleep alone!"

She tried to roll away, but the "drunk" Grayson was faster than she could have imagined. In one fluid, blurred motion, he shifted.

The weight on the bed moved, and suddenly, he wasn’t behind her anymore. He was over her.

Mailah gasped, her eyes snapping open. The room was bathed in the dying red embers of the fireplace, casting a hellish glow over the bed.

Grayson was propped up on his elbows, pinning her to the mattress. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal the hard, lean planes of his chest. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead in dark waves.

But it was his eyes that stopped her heart.

They weren’t the dark gray of the man she knew. They weren’t even the solid black of the demon who had fought Vane. They were a piercing, iridescent silver, swirling with a hunger so intense it felt like a physical weight on her chest. They looked like twin moons caught in a storm.

He wasn’t asleep. He was very, very awake.

His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, then down to where her lace underwear met the curve of her hip. Mailah felt exposed, vulnerable, and a strange, terrifying surge of desire that she couldn’t suppress.

"You’re awake," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, her palms feeling the thrumming, erratic beat of his heart.

Grayson’s hand moved. It didn’t pull away. It slid down, past her waist, his fingers tracing the line of her hip with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, the silver light of his eyes reflecting in her own pupils.

"I’ve been awake since the moment I walked into this room, Mailah," he rasped, his voice a dark, simmering promise. "I couldn’t resist your scent. It tastes... delicious."

He leaned closer, his lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from hers. The air between them was thick with the scent of raw, unbridled passion.

"Now," Grayson whispered, his hand tightening on her hip as he pulled her flush against him. "Tell me again why I shouldn’t take exactly what I want."

Mailah stared into the silver storm of his eyes, her heart racing as she wondered which Grayson she was facing.